Late nights and long car rides, I got lost this weekend. A few friends of mine, namely a couple, meaning only two friends technically, got hitched in the hill country on Friday. It was everything a proper hitching should be: under twining Texas oaks, surrounded a few close friends and family, replete with the fullness of the Gospel, of grace, and of everything good. Weddings are so brimming with Christ and our joy felt complete.
To detour some famous Austin traffic, my road-tripping companion and I took Creek Road, a swirling, twirling, spinning back road that made us gasp every minute. I told her I could die, right then and there. Totally happy. That if our last memory should be a good one, this could be mine. It made me hungry for heaven. The world always does.
Last night we stood on the top of a roof and watched the vestiges of the sunset dip pink, then blue, and then black in the west, and the Austin skyline in front of us. The infamous swarms of bats glowed white in light of the Frost Bank Tower, they moved in unison and disappeared.
We were a caravan of weary travelers coming home, and somehow my car led the way. I don't like to lead, I said to my friend next to me. She put her cool hand on my sunburned neck and asked good questions. She always does. And then we were quiet, keeping an eye on the headlights behind us and their tired drivers. We traded drivers and cars and passengers in Waco and kept going north. I saw the Dallas skyline and my heart didn't love it the way it loves Austin's.
I always want to be somewhere else.
I pulled in my driveway nearly to 3am, and crawled under my down comforter and cool white sheets. I slept hard.
This morning I made coffee in the french press and stood in front of the window by our kitchen sink, staring at the trees, the hammock, the bottles on the window ledge, the aloe plant that grows faster than I can repot it, the faded blue curtains. I always want to be somewhere else, I know, but I love my home. And I love it best.